"gawks" poems
I am not an ordinary person.
I am no genius,
no artist,
and barely a poet.
I have no great life's work,
no opera,
no magnum opus;
but I'm no ordinary person.
There are no great lovers
waiting for my arrival
at the docks,
or morning my departure
as the ship sets sail.
No major sporting events
with crowds of fans cheering
and booing my every
success and failure.
Nobody takes pictures
of me or gawks at my pose.
Nor does anyone ask
for my signature
on their favorite
piece of paper,
which happens to be
stained by the ink
of my own words.
No one praises me
for my work,
or thinks I'm the best
at what I do,
whatever it is I do.
But I'm no ordinary person.
I have no son or
daughter to look up to me.
Parties aren't thrown
for me, and I am not
on the top of anyone's list,
not even the **** list
my enemies make.
I don't dance very well,
and I'm not a good singer,
songwriter,
musician,
or composer.
I'll probably never
be on TV or
in the movies,
no that's not
gonna be me.
But my life's work
is its happiness,
my operas are
my own personal dramas,
and my magnum opus
is this life itself.
For I am like you
the extraordinary person.
Nov 25, 2010
Nov 25, 2010 at 10:27 PM UTC
Hmmm, let's see
I cradled the sun like a sick razor-blade
I found a warehouse of abandoned unborn hearts
I abruptly stopped a dead man to talk
I bottled up new souls for a long desert drive
I snuffed out every star with cathodic eyes
I fondled the carcass of eternal trouble
I found the hungry embalmed mouth of the first paid woman
I dug a hole; I tied rope; I burned cars; I cried dope
I shied away; I broke sway; I uttered “May-Day”
I danced! I sweated; I pigged out
I catapulted myself on fire
All this:
to see the harrowing sepulchered moons of tomorrow
like a strange weightless liquid
where I will appear and reappear
to the eventual astonishment of billions of years of shadowing sentience
Another universe gawks
Jun 30, 2012
Jun 30, 2012 at 4:47 PM UTC
Here lies the bride,
****** ripped wide,
Married rich, a bribe.
Watch her walk,
The guests all talk,
Open mouthed minister gawks.
Masquerade party,
The lock and the key,
Binds two for all eternity.
The smile they share,
Warming with care,
Trapped in a stare.
Married, her dream fulfilled,
Kids, a home, family dinners, that's the drill,
No money for the bill.
Last chance to run,
Last chance for fun,
Eclipse the sun...
Here she comes.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 2:38 PM UTC
Mona Lisa, mona linda,
O emblem of western beauty!
A hundred greedy eyes rest on you,
Drinking you in.
Crowds and crowds gather
To feast on your unsmiling face,
Your stiff posture, your
Lifeless gaze.
Within the golden frame you are
Frozen in time
And unable to escape those relentless gawks.
Life imprisonment
With an audience of 2 million.
Adoring fans, passers-by
Cry out in praise!
“Beauty, beauty, beauty!”
Do they know what they see?
Bland Western beauty standards served up on a plate.
Fresh from Ireland and ready to eat.
Dreams of wealth and success
Wrapped up in pale white skin
And short blonde hair.
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 4:54 PM UTC
He's a gentle giant
Tiptoeing around his soul flower
Delicately nurturing the delicate entity
In awe, he gawks from suns to moons
Pondering in anticipation, this wonder flower's bloom
Such a marveling creation, he wants to support forever
But he's so very very big
He could crush the little thing
And so he can never get too close.
As gentle as he may be, he will never be so gentle it doesn't break the flower
So he may only enjoy the flower from a distance, never being able to entwine
Until one day the flower blooms and evolves from a flower to a tree
For a soul-flower is complex enough to be this free
And it's roots caressed the giant's body, gently uniting with its everlasting partner in time
Becoming one, like the tree on top of the giant hill
Together, they slumber forever, in each other's presence, content, and still.
People visit this soul tree from time and time
For many believe that this tree will grant you the sight to obtain your own true love, you'll see
There was a time where this giant thought it would never get to truly love the soul-flower but could nurture it from a distance, and it did so happily.
This nurturing little did the giant know, caused it to bloom big enough to withstand the giant's strength, forming its own strength, in which it used to become one with the giant, for the love of one was so powerful that it amplified the being of the other.
Dec 15, 2020
Dec 15, 2020 at 11:30 AM UTC
On the east end, there's a chamber
where the weak end barely
a cut beyond Ms. Short;
can you blame her?
Vigilant as hawks, there's a scent
that the crowd gawks over
on their way to pay for ******
here the filthiest repent.
On the pavement, there's a clue
as to another payment made
by loyal patron;
we're left to wonder, who?
In Whitechapel, there's a tale
of crimson gravel split
by thick-skinned knees;
their owner has since gone stale.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC
He waits for nothing
trapped inside vendettas of the past.
To compensate for all the pain.
Collapsed by storms, aghast.
Mouthing words into the plated
metal microphone.
Omniscient spy who gawks upon
his wretched monotones.
Patient Dr. Jekyll sits still
with longing looks.
While Heyde is toying endlessly
amongst his fellow crooks.
If only neither played a part,
and both were but a dream,
No plague of silent conflict
would crowd his every seam.
Within the realm of tragedy,
is where his soul endures.
Ty; intrinsic predator
searching for a cure.
And as his restless measures
of feelings coincide,
and harmonies escape his lungs
while beats start to collide,
The distant Dr. Jekyll protrudes
from vacant sleep.
Commences to erode a quiet
conscience, from the deep.
Sudden need for elsewhere
is all that Ty can see.
Every fiber recognizes
where he needs to be.
And suddenly the microphone,
who knows his every pain
is sitting lonely,
mesmerized
by silent noise again.
Ty is but a victim, sullen thoughts
that make him sick.
Never can he compromise,
when all his habits stick.
Forever now ambivalent,
confused and losing time.
Ty knots his laces,
bats his tears,
a façade: pressed and fine.
Ty's dreams are crushed,
disintegrate into the offshore sand.
When all at once he notices,
his life is in his hands.
A straw that Jekyll used before
is laying on the ground.
Heyde is shaking shamefully,
but cannot make a sound.
Ty looks upon the dreams he crushed
and searches for his will
its lined up right in front of him,
dispassion in a pill.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 12:05 PM UTC
I sat, staring
a raw paper, naked before me
it gawks at me, teases me, mocks me.
With a blank stare it intimidates me.
Ah, a pun!
Lost pun, without a home.
Perhaps I should file it
with so many other homeless puns?
They have no where to go.
Like a transient they stand
holding signs that read
"Will work for a storyline."
But they are not alone.
There are sentences, paragraphs,
poems and essays
with no end in sight.
"Come join us!" they cry.
"We will await the gods
imagination and inspiration!"
But as Christ delays his coming,
so do they.
But wait, and wait it shall.
Patient paper
Silent paper
The gods will come.
As thieves in the night.
In the dawns early light.
Ah yes!
You will not compel me to stare.
Taunting remnant of tree.
For the gods never come
while I watch.
Feb 5, 2011
Feb 5, 2011 at 3:20 AM UTC
He's got chocolate brown hair,
most **** sideburns,
I have to stare and I don't care,
if he gawks back at me,
or his grin widens.
those **** sideburns....
He's got deep blue eyes,
if he could let me in,
I'd swim across and reach his heart,
come back and do it from start,
or stay forever,
in eyes of heartbreaker...
He's got **** British Accent,
he keeps talking now and then,
but he's just a friend,
so I just smile and listen,
wishing I could be more then a friend,
more then a girlfriend...
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 12:15 AM UTC
Some people don't always know what they're doing
Including me in the congregation
But some know exactly what they're doing
Down with the tunnel snakes
Looking to shake
The acidic bottle
To see how chaotic the peace becomes
I see you, watching how you swindle the naive
You're brilliant, aren't you?
Brilliantly distorted
Eyes like a Hawk
That rarely gawks
At what is in front of me
I see it everywhere
From the mountains of Nepal to the cold, harsh cities of Delaware
People look forward to impair
The full circles, the healthy plant in the desert
Prospering like it should
Don't make me laugh with your intent
You'll make enough dents
But everything will hold like a steel tent
I can jump over any fence
And penetrate any defense
You're able to implement
Don't lower your guard
Regardless of being a race car driver or a Bard
I know sinister yards
and I'm growing in disguise
You won't see it
Until you find yourself in a completed cat and mouse game
How is your game working out now?
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC
The cutest car,
cannot travel very far.
With wheels of sponge,
and seats of fun.
It soaks up bumps with squishy lumps,
Bouncy buckets, fuzzy clad and by the dozen
no tires here, no flats, no fear.
With catchy tunes,
it whistles fumes.
Around the block, it catches gawks
the people flock, to ride and watch
the brakes may squak and need a chalk
but when it goes, youd swear it talked
The more you see, the more you won't.
The cutest car is more than show.
A fine inside and out to match
a second look, you'll never catch.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
Mostly these days I enter a room, polka dot populated by folks with too much perfume, or none at all and presuppositions and a cold drink lingering near them.
I carry a shadowy painting with me, but it’s unfinished. It’s meticulously cared for and not yet ready to receive merit, let alone garner attention or criticism of ubiquity.
Mostly these days I find myself troubled walking into these galleries laden with baby boomer critical gazes, though some understand in a competent comparative fashion and look forward to seeing the end result. The saturation, and the color spectrum.
Mostly these days I wander into a tavern with a short story in my arms. It’s falsehood glaring, but with truth inside the lie. It is also unfinished. And yes it’s five years in the making, and everyone gawks, and watches carefully over glassware beaded with condensation, fury during October, the lights come down a bit, and I feel better. Mostly.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 1:20 PM UTC
Our bodies fit perfectly
hearts racing rapidly
lips harmonising ceaselessly
Nebula gawks
making asteroids stop
No evidences,
just stars,
No one but You and I
Gleaming stones dull
In comparison,
set aside to our
brewing passion
You light my day
like carousels do
to a carnival
Jul 3, 2020
Jul 3, 2020 at 3:16 AM UTC
Lydia
pale and thin
lanky hair
lightish brown
walks with me
to see hot
steam engines
at Kings Cross
train station
her old man
grudgingly
said she could
go with me
we get on
a bus there
sitting on
a side seat
some big guy
stares at us
his deep eyes
drinks us in
then gawks at
Lydia
she blushes
looks away
I give him
my John Wayne
cowboy stare
he looks back
then away
we get off
at our stop
at Kings Cross
smell of steam
sound of trains
huff and puff
and people
rushing by
on to trains
off of trains
we both sit
on a seat
watching this
unfolding
train drama
with porters
with trolleys
and luggage
and parcels
passengers
going by
rich and poor
Lydia
beside me
wanting this
as I do
the grey smoke
rising high
to the roof
turning blue.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC
So I just thought I'd sit here for a moment and reminisce
It's a chilling feeling thinking bout all the times I've missed.
getting sick of corner living,
Don't know why I got used to the pain,
Probably because I've been grabbing matches by the flame
shouting out
WHO IS THIS KID, WHO IS THIS MAN, WHO AM I!
I light another
while I'm burning CDs filled with beats,
and at night I smoke my blunts straight to the dome so I can feel a bit more at home.
See the fact of the matter if the woman has noticed,
That this man has lost his focus,
and just the quick like hocus pocus,
Houdini back into focus.
and now boys to high up to come down from neverland,
So I guess that means he'll changed his looks, so he wouldn't appear to be such a ************* crook.
Acidic dripping form of ma become a figure of captain hook.
And the passerby gawks and quivers at the sight of a boy who casts a phantasm of a man,
but felt good because they knew that they would make a change if they could,
And I a phantasm of man speak: Is it I you are afraid of heard no reply
Said fug it lit a cigarette while he
spread his black and tattered wings
and flew out into constant existence
while finding out the at the same time
the only meaning to life is simply living with new found meaning.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 11:31 PM UTC
the sea's a show that gawks at the moon
what a lovely seat ive acquired this afternoon
a balet of this display deserves some show of gratitude
I think I, the moon will chose to embrace you
ill enjoy the feeling of falling into your mass
no matter the reprecussions
ive had enough of the cast
id rather be dead
than floating around
i the moon
chose to be with the ground
May 17, 2011
May 17, 2011 at 1:34 AM UTC
I see a man looking for something. He paces back and forth.
Must I not go near him as he glances, glares, and gawks at my expression.
His eyes red with hatred but still full of wonder.
Who is this man?
He is dark and shadowy pondering wandering looking for something.
His quest, oh yes his quest, he knows not of his objective. It clings to him like a burlesque of war.
YES! YES! It is clear now this man is confused! He needs to find the path.
But isn't it right there in front of him?
Can he not see it?
Why is he so confused?
He is not blind.
I shout to him but he only interrupts me.
This stubborn *** of a man interrupts me while I'm trying to help him.
Why can't he see that?
I'm only trying to help but his pride it is his downfall. I must not give up.
I shout again only to be interrupted once more. He mocks me with his timid expression.
I should **** this man but must I be the better man and walk away?
Yes I will do just that and let him suffer in his wondering.
My reflection fades as I walk away.
Mar 17, 2012
Mar 17, 2012 at 2:02 AM UTC
Seeking shelter under the moon,
(pale, grave, unjust)
It seems unfair that we
(the children)
Should suffer by the faults
(too many to mention)
Of those responsible men and women,
(elected or otherwise)
Quick to judge, lax in self-reflection,
(do they care?)
But, whatever the verdict be,
(pale, grave, unjust)
Here we are, alone, starving for remedy,
(sorry, no prescription coverage)
For solace to our weeping wounds.
(physical or otherwise)
Relief of the kindest human nature,
(a helping hand?)
We earnestly need and need and need…
(get a job, slacker!)
The voice of the Salvation Army speaker
(what’s the verdict today?)
Echoes the length of the shelter hall,
(a roof is a roof)
“No beds left, try again tomorrow,”
(bad luck or a curse?)
Over the clamor of hopeful guests,
(which was louder, his voice or the instant
shattering of my hard-pressed heart?)
And he turns, and he goes, and I am out
(the door)
Under the sheen of the moon, again.
(pale, grave, unjust)
One passer by gawks with a phony concern,
(should I ask with extended hand?)
But hastens his pace in planned evasion,
(why bother?)
As if I’m a disease.
(cough, cough…)
The moon looks down with a frown,
(yes, he too is sad)
At his pathetic subject, meager and small;
(where else to turn?)
He is the caretaker of us all, under his glow,
(pale, grave, unjust)
But, he too, will leave us at dawn.
(at the curb, at the end of the line)
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 11:14 PM UTC
Excuse me, who gave you my stamp of approval
to look at me with such audacity?
If you enjoy looking and not talking, I suggest you google
girls with no self-respect or authenticity.
You think I enjoy being stared at by a stranger?
Or is it that you simply see me as an object,
or that talking to me would result in danger
of finding between us a mental disconnect?
Listen up, boys of age middle school and onward:
girls don't profit from any gawks or crude comments.
And if you want a real relationship that's less awkward,
then make conversation, start friendships, then commitments.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC
Sit and I will make this short
After many years considering
your crude remarks
your awful gawks
I find that I have come utterly
to hate you utmost fully.
Your very presence infuriates me
I'd **** you if I had to stomach for it.
Instead I'll have to be content
to watch your pride whither
and buckle within itself.
Dec 9, 2010
Dec 9, 2010 at 6:07 PM UTC
A cutting of thumbs,
thin sliced across the back,
made by Benny's
small penknife
and thumbs pressed
against each to each,
blood mixed then
he dabbed Ingrid's
bleeding thumb until
it ceased and placed
a small plaster over,
then did his own.
She looked at her
plastered thumb.
So we're blood-brother
and blood-sister now?
She said.
According to some
blood oath I read
somewhere we are,
he said.
She seemed pleased
and rubbed her thumb.
He put a plaster over
his thumb and looked at her.
What shall I say
if my dad asks about it?
She said.
Just say you cut it
while cutting an apple
or something ,
Benny said.
She looked uncertain.
He'll know I'm lying,
he always does,
he gawks at me
and says you're lying girl
and wallops me.
He wallops you anyway,
Benny said.
He walloped you
the other day for going
to church, how's that
make sense?
She looked at her thumb.
Her father did.
He smacked her head
the other day for looking
at him when he lost
his door key and said
she'd hidden it.
What now?
Benny said.
Don't know,
she said.
Could go out to
the herbalist shop
and get some
sarsaparilla that helps
make blood,
he said.
She looked at her thumb.
Will it be all right now?
She said.
Sure it'll be fine
after an hour,
your old man
won't even know,
Benny said.
Well? Shall be go
to the herbalist?
He said.
She looked at him,
guess so.
So they walked
from his bedroom
and he said to his mother,
who was doing washing
in a big tub,
we're just going
to the herbalist shop.
She wiped her brow
with the back of her hand.
What have you done
to your thumb?
Cut it by mistake,
he said.
Ingrid hid her thumb
behind her back.
O well be careful,
his mother said.
She looked at Benny
and then Ingrid.
You all right, Ingrid?
Yes, thank you,
Ingrid said,
smiling weakly.
So they walked out
the flat and down
the concrete stairway
and down into the Square.
Can someone marry
someone after
the blood thingy?
She asked as they walked
down the slope
towards Rockingham street.
He frowned.
I guess so,
he said,
gazing up Meadow Row
straight ahead.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 2:20 AM UTC